“I love you,” Eli said, kissing Arabel goodbye. He touched a finger to her pert nose. “Sleep well.”
“And I love you,” she replied. “Safe journey.”
Arabel stood for a moment, watching as Eli rode away in the snow, feeling as if her heart would burst with joy. She leaned against the door frame, as he disappeared from view, suddenly extremely sleepy, and so she turned and made her way upstairs to her room.
Arabel undressed quickly and pulled her warm nightclothes on. She efficiently stoked the fire in her grate before climbing thankfully into bed and pulling the covers tightly up to her chin. Arabel’s thoughts flashed back over the long day she’d just had, and she relived all of the events which had occurred.
A small thrill shot through Arabel as she realized she had managed to produce the thief for the Gypsies and she was certain that no one could possibly be angry any longer at Eli. What a relief that had been! And to have had Francesca for a champion! That had been odd as well, but Arabel realized she had actually begun to quite like the tiny medium, despite her earlier jealousy and anxiety over the younger girl’s beauty, familiarity with, and cultural connection to, Eli.
Arabel wondered again who it was pursuing the terrified thief, if it was indeed the ominous grey force, but she fell asleep almost instantly, long before her mind could ask any further questions, or suss out strategies to make Jonty talk. The nightmare took hold of her immediately and she watched as the dream played out in its familiar slow-motion, graphic horror.
She could see the man in front of her, he was walking briskly. She struggled to keep up. She was carrying a large bag and it was heavy, so heavy that she wanted to put it down and forget about it. Leave it behind and continue on, faster, faster, and catch up with the man. She was losing him! He was running, his legs so much longer than hers. And then someone else, coming up from behind to drag her down. On the ground, the russet leaves a faint cushion, the earth cold and unyielding. The second person, choking her. Hands on her neck, tighter and tighter.
She was screaming with no sound. Her throat was constricted. The contents of the heavy bag lie all over the forest floor. Apples and peaches and carrots and potatoes. She struggled in horror, staring wildly at the shiny red apples as they rolled away. Her legs kicked out uselessly and her hands and nails clawed at the person behind her. She tried to turn, she tried to breathe. Grey and black overcoming her. Laughter. There were two of them and they were laughing, jeering at her.
“Thought you were so clever, didn’t you?” one of them said, his voice guttural, deep, and fully without conscience. “Teach you for meddling!”
More laughter, more tight fingers on her throat, someone grasping her dress, the sound of ripping material. Horror and unspeakable pain. Under her nails, skin and blood. And then the screaming. Was it her? Was that really her voice raised in unholy fear? Were those her nails raking the face of her unknown attacker as she fought to save herself?
“You should have left it alone! You’ll regret it now!” the man with the guttural voice laughed ominously and it chilled Arabel’s blood. She knew she was now helpless in the matter of her own death.
There was no one to save her. She had failed.
Arabel thrust her hands back again, blindly scratching out behind her, in a desperate, last attempt to immobilize her captors. She connected with an arm that wrestled with her and grappled with her in order to incapacitate her.
Arabel pushed harder against the arm and was shocked to feel a violent slap across her face. Her eyes flew open in shock.
Arabel was disoriented momentarily as her heart slammed forcefully against her ribcage, and then she calmed as she realized the nightmare was actually over. Arabel was in her own bedroom and Amelia Bodean was standing over her, her hand raised high, ready to slap Arabel again if need be.
“Wake up, Arabel!” her grandmother shouted at her, her eyes flashing with the effort of rousing Arabel from her turbulent dreams.
“I’m awake!” Arabel responded breathlessly, rubbing her cheek where she was certain a rather pronounced angry red mark would be.
“Another nightmare?” Amelia Bodean questioned, somewhat needlessly, and Arabel nodded.
“I’m fine now, thank you. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
Amelia Bodean let out a long, gusty sigh. She stared at her granddaughter’s closed expression.
“You didn’t wake me. I was stranded in town until old Joe Thompkins came along with his plough horses. I just arrived home; I almost had to stay at the club!” Amelia Bodean grimaced slightly; she never felt secure unless she was sleeping in her own bed and she was mighty glad to have made it home this evening.
“Good-night then, Grandmother,” Arabel said, stifling a yawn as sleepy tendrils wound their way over her again and the nightmare receded fully.
“Good-night, Arabel,” Amelia Bodean replied, making her way toward the door. She paused at the frame. “Your mother, she suffered nightmares too,” she remarked softly, almost to herself, before turning away and Arabel felt the sadness in her gait as she strode from the room, stiff-backed and locked implacably into her own personal sorrow.
Surprisingly, Arabel fell back asleep almost instantly, and when she next awoke, she was pleased to see a bright, comforting sunshine filling her bedroom. Arabel stretched out lazily, waking up slowly, clearing her head of the foggy nothing-ness of slumber. She sat up in bed and saw that the fire had gone out and the room was chill, despite the morning rays of sunshine peeking through her window. The sunrays were bright but held no heat.
Arabel got out of bed and put on her warm, cosy wrapper. She laid kindling and logs in the grate and lit the fire expertly. Soon the crackling sounds of fire eating its way through the dry wood filled the room and a lovely warmth bit back the cold.
Arabel opened her curtains. She was delighted to see the world through a serene looking glass of snow. Everywhere Arabel looked, at the trees, the nearby houses, the buggy making its way down the street, all she could survey was covered in a shiny white gloss, making it seem fresh, new, untouched.
Arabel breathed deeply of the bitterly cold, clean smelling air as she opened her window for a brief second to further wake herself up and then she re-shuttered it firmly against the snowy landscape. Snow in autumn; it had been a long time since that had happened. Usually the fall weather in The Corvids consisted of repetitive, endlessly grey, rainy days without any hint of a respite, not snow and sunshine, Arabel mused.
She washed her face and hands and dressed in a soft frock of lilac muslin, wrapping a cream coloured shawl around her shoulders for extra warmth. From downstairs, Arabel could hear Morna yelling something to Cook, and she smiled. Morna was always yelling at Cook because Cook could barely hear anything these days; soon it would be time for her to retire.
A knock at the door startled Arabel and she called out for the person to enter.
To Arabel’s dismay, Mrs. Peyton-Peggison stood there, smiling, a sneaky light gleaming within her deceptively mild mannered eyes. She ran a well manicured hand over her smoothly coiffed, mousy brown hair.
“Good morning, Arabel. Your esteemed grandmother has asked me to begin your instruction this morning in household management.”
“Today?” Arabel stammered, desperately searching her mind for a way out of this predicament. “But isn’t it charitable donations day?”
Mrs. Peyton-Peggison shook her head to and fro, and smiled again in that sickly-sweet manner that Arabel so despised. Mrs. Peyton-Peggison cleared her throat, as if apologetically, but Arabel could see her eyes were gleaming with a morally self-righteous, utterly satisfied delight.
“No, young miss, your grandmother ordered Mr. Larsen to deliver the goods three days ago, whilst you were still laid up with fever.”
“I see.”
Arabel felt for a moment that she was back in the nightmare; she was trapped, and no one could extricate her from this deadly situation. Arabel sighed. It was going to be a long morning. No matter
which way she examined it, she really disliked Florence Peyton-Peggison, and Arabel was well aware that her grandmother’s secretary reciprocated her disdain.
“Well, let’s begin then, shall we? I thought we might start with floor and wall maintenance and you could scrub out the back laundry rooms and the front and back cloakrooms.”
Arabel shut her eyes for a brief moment. She could picture herself, on hands and knees, scrubbing viciously at old dirt and caked on grime.
“I think I’d better change,” she said, turning toward her wardrobe to look for something old and worn to put on instead of the pretty lilac dress she currently wore.
Before Arabel could decide what old outfit would suffice for an intense cleaning session, Morna entered the room, her eyes nervous, a tad excited. The maid seemed out of breath, as if she’d run all the way upstairs from the front hall. She had.
“Come quickly, miss,” Morna said urgently to Arabel, whispering, so Mrs. Peyton-Peggison couldn’t hear her. “The Chief is here to speak with you!”
Arabel wasted no time in making her way downstairs, relieved to get away from Mrs. Peyton-Peggison and her nasty ideas, although she wasn’t entirely certain that an interview with Chief Constable Bartlin was honestly going to be any easier or any more enjoyable than hours of harsh, manual labour.
Morna rushed on ahead and ushered Arabel promptly into the formal front parlour. Arabel was glad to see that Amelia Bodean was nowhere in sight; hopefully she was not in residence and would not need to partake in or be privy to the upcoming conversation.
The Chief was standing in front of the fire, absently perusing the bookshelf next to the roaring blaze. He turned when he heard Arabel step into the room and did not smile when he greeted her. His green eyes were sharp but did not contain any hint of of the strange lasciviousness they’d shown the last time he’d been here, for which Arabel was eminently grateful.
The Chief’s eyes today were flat, un-emotional, speculative and totally in professional authoritarian mode.
“Miss Spade,” he intoned formally, inclining his head toward her in a brief nod. Arabel curtsied in return and then sat on the sofa quietly and waited for him to begin the interview.
“I’m sure you know why I’m here,” The Chief said and Arabel nodded.
“Jonty Governs?”
“Yes. He surrendered himself to the Gypsies last night and it is rumoured you have some withheld information about the recent murders.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Arabel replied, “but I am not sure I have any information which would be new to you.”
“You proclaimed his innocence last night, did you not, at the Gypsy council meeting?”
“Yes, based upon what Governs himself told me, and my impressions of the murders themselves.”
“Meaning what, exactly? Speak plainly, Miss Spade.”
Arabel hesitated; she was not sure what to divulge and what to keep hidden. How much of her paranormal comprehension would the Chief be able to understand?
“Jonty said he was responsible for the thefts last summer of the Gypsy horses and community chest funds, but that he was innocent in the matter of Klara and Northrup’s deaths. Jonty swore he’d never laid eyes upon the girl and he had no idea of who Indra Northrup was when asked.”
“What reason did he have then for his involvement in this matter? Or how could he explain why his name came up to begin with?” The Chief sounded slightly irritated and Arabel really couldn’t fault him. Murder irritated everyone. And so, it seemed, did Jonty Governs.
“Jonty swore he had been framed. The only person he said who he did have any contact with was a Gypsy by the name of Nick Chauncer. That’s really all I have been privy to, sir.”
“Why did you not come to me with this information? Why not come forward with the thief when you had him within your grasp?”
“I believe Jonty is being framed; he speaks the truth, as best as he knows how. He’s not evil enough to commit murder. He’s more cowardly than anything, really.” Arabel spoke with firm conviction and the Chief regarded her solemnly.
“That doesn’t answer my question, young lady. Why did you not turn him in?” the Chief demanded again and Arabel reluctantly realized she would have to give him her honest answer.
“I thought he would be bait for the killer, sir,” she said.
“Bait for the killer?” the Chief echoed. “Exactly how did you surmise that was going to occur, or even advance the case if it did?’ he asked dryly.
“I’m not sure, sir. It was what my intuition advised me to do.”
“Your intuition, eh?” the Chief looked her up and down. “Arabel Spade, witchy girl.” he muttered and Arabel squirmed uncomfortably upon the sofa. She did not reply. The Chief stared at her for a long, piercing moment.
“Get your overcoat. You’re coming with me,” the Chief ordered abruptly.
Arabel felt a cold fear descend sharply upon her being. A mass of unsettling shivers tracked uneasily down her spine.
“Going where, sir?” Arabel asked meekly, dreading the answer. Was he going to jail her? Amelia Bodean would have a heart attack most likely, and Arabel’s head as well, for bringing such a disgrace upon her household.
The Chief smiled down at Arabel, completely sans humour.
“The Gypsies are cooperating with my department and they have released Governs to me for questioning. “
Chief Constable Bartlin snorted in puzzled resignation as he surveyed Arabel.
“He’s asking for you.”
Arabel was shocked; Jonty was asking for her? How bizarre! It didn’t make any sense. She rose immediately from the sofa.
“He wants to talk to the witchy girl from the Moor, he said. I take it he means you, Miss Spade.”
“Yes, sir, just give me a moment,” Arabel said and hurried into the hall to tell Morna where she was going.
Morna, of course, had been eavesdropping just outside of the door and so was already aware of the reason for the Chief’s visit and of Arabel’s imminent departure for the jailhouse.
“I’ll be alright, Morna,” Arabel said briskly to the maid, whose frightened face was pale as she brought Arabel her large black cape and proceeded to help Arabel step into her stout and sturdy black boots.
The Chief pushed past Arabel and Morna to open the front door.
“I have a carriage out front,” he said and exited.
For a brief moment, Arabel simply stood in a dazed shock with Morna. Then Arabel heard Mrs. Peyton-Peggison’s brisk step coming toward them and she hugged Morna quickly and dashed out of the house. No way was she waiting around for her grandmother’s secretary. If Mrs. Peyton-Peggison reached Arabel in time, she would no doubt insist upon accompanying her to the jailhouse, which would completely hinder Arabel’s ability to question and make sense of Jonty Governs’ frightened tale and his actions of late.
A groomsman helped Arabel into the shiny black carriage and they set off immediately down the snowy track toward the jailhouse. Arabel was filled with a strange elation as she wondered just what the thief was going to tell her. Her mind raced madly in all directions of wild speculation. Within Arabel’s peripheral knowing, she could feel the presence and energy of Ira, and knew the crow flew overhead the carriage with her, guarding her and standing sentry as always.
Seated across from Arabel, Chief Constable Bartlin’s broad face gave nothing away. His impassive green eyes were hooded like a hawk as he surveyed Arabel with a reluctant interest.
Here’s your chance to set things straight, Arabel Spade, pixie maiden, the Chief thought to himself wryly, but he said nothing aloud and the carriage lurched through the snow in an uneasy and contemplative silence.
A Becoming Lie/Afraid of the Dark
Arabel had never had occasion to visit the jailhouse before nor had she been to the ornate offices and joint headquarters of Mayor Aldritch and Chief Constable Bartlin.
Well, I am here now, she thought to herself, taking a good, long look around. Arabel was
surprised to see how opulent the offices were in their decor, and how spotlessly all of the surfaces shone. How even the workers who rushed around like busy little worker bees looked freshly scrubbed and cleaner-than-clean.
The main office was large and beige and richly carpeted and branched off into several different alcoves. Arabel could see at least twelve of them and all were occupied by various officious looking personnel. Arabel was largely ignored as she followed the Chief into his private domain, just off to the side of the main office and down a dim hallway.
The Chief’s office was furnished solemnly in dark browns and amber hues. A walnut desk dominated the room and behind it, a large picture window provided a view of the courtyard outside. The Chief seated himself behind the desk, his place of power, and motioned Arabel to a rather uncomfortable looking brown wooden chair opposite. Arabel seated herself on the wooden chair and waited for him to begin.
“They’re bringing him down now. You will have fifteen minutes with him.” The Chief pinned Arabel, hard, with his sharp green eyes. “Make the most of it and do not dare lie to me about what information you receive.”
“Yes, sir,” Arabel replied.
She heard a shuffling noise in the hallway and presently two guards appeared with the thief sandwiched in between them. Jonty was shackled at the wrists and he assumed a look of fearful relief upon his face as he spied Arabel with the Chief.
Arabel and the Chief watched as the guards placed a restraint upon Jonty’s ankle, effectively tethering him to a post, rendering him unable to escape. The Chief grunted in approval as he and the two guards made to leave the room.
Just outside the door, the Chief turned back to Arabel. He shook a domineering finger at her.
“Fifteen minutes,” he instructed brusquely, before closing the door firmly and leaving Arabel alone with the accused killer.
Autumn Page 15
